Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE BENEATH THE COTTONWOODS
The Bell house had once been small and proud. Papa built the porch himself, Mama painted the kitchen walls blue, and every spring lilacs climbed the fence until their scent filled the front room. By that summer the fence leaned sideways, the lilacs were dead, one window was covered with a flour sack, and the well had become a black hole with no water at the bottom. June and I slammed the door, shoved a chair under the handle, and listened for Caleb's boots. I pulled Papa's old kitchen knife from beneath a blanket and held it with both hands. A moment later came a knock. “Lily? June?” We froze. “I'm not coming in,” he called. “I followed because two four-year-olds shouldn't be walking three miles into the hills alone.” My grip tightened. “Go away!” I shouted. His answer came after a pause. “All right. I'm leaving water on the porch.”
“We have water,” I lied. “Your well's dry,” he answered. My stomach dropped. He had seen too much. “There's a spring.” “Nearest spring is two miles east.” June looked at me with the guilty expression she wore before betraying a secret. Caleb continued, “I also brought flour, beans, lamp oil, soap, stockings, and boots.” June's eyes widened. “Boots?” I shook my head violently. “Two pairs,” Caleb added. My sister immediately dragged the chair away from the door. When it opened, Caleb stood six feet back with his hat in his hands. Two sacks sat on the porch beside two pairs of small leather boots. June hugged the smaller pair to her chest as if they were dolls. I kept the knife visible. Caleb glanced at my hands. “Good grip,” he said. “Papa taught me.” “Your papa taught right.” No adult had ever answered me that way.
The silence inside the house accused us more clearly than words. One mattress. Two blankets. Three tin cups. No adult clothing. No food worth naming. A stove filled with cold ash. Caleb looked from the empty shelf to the flour-sack window. “How long have you been alone?” “We're fine.” “How long?” “Mama's coming back.” His eyes moved to June. I stepped in front of her. “Don't ask her.” June, of course, answered anyway. “Since the lilacs.” Caleb glanced toward the dead bushes outside. Three months. His face went pale beneath the sun. “Before your mother left for Cheyenne?” June shook her head. “Before the men came.” The room became so quiet that I could hear flies tapping the window. Caleb turned toward me slowly. “What men?”
Memory returned in pieces: Mama on her knees, hair fallen loose, one cheek bruised; the pounding at the door; Sheriff Holt shouting about papers; Silas Vane promising fire; Boone Clegg laughing, his silver tooth catching lamplight. Mama had pushed us under the bed, kissed our foreheads, and whispered, “If anything happens, you protect June.” Then she pointed toward a blue-painted floorboard beside the stove. “Never lift that board. Not for anyone.” She went outside, and the men demanded to know where Elias had hidden the ledger. Mama said she did not know. Vane said he would burn the house. Mama answered that he would have to burn her children too. There was a wagon, a cry cut short, then wheels fading into the night. We stayed under the bed until morning because she had told us to.
Caleb listened without interrupting. When I finished, his hands had curled into fists. “And nobody came?” he asked. I said Miss Mae Dawson, the Lucky Star cook, had brought food once. Sheriff Holt threatened her job and perhaps worse, so she stopped coming openly. After that, scraps began appearing behind the saloon in places dogs could not reach. Caleb closed his eyes. For one moment he looked older than the hills. He did not curse the town. That would have been easier. He simply looked around our ruined kitchen at the evidence of everyone else's cowardice. “Get your boots on,” he said. “Why?” “Because I'm walking you to town.” “We don't need walking.” “Then walk beside me and pretend I'm decorative.” June liked that answer.
At the mercantile, he bought more supplies than two children could carry. The clerk stared as if we were stray animals brought indoors. Caleb stared back until the man lowered his eyes. Among the practical things—soap, stockings, lamp oil—was a red ribbon. “What's that?” I asked. “A mistake,” Caleb said. “Storekeeper claimed girls need ribbons.” June touched it reverently. “He was right.” For the first time in months, I felt something dangerous: amusement. Later, in the alley, Caleb asked about Silas Vane. We told him Vane owned the Lucky Star, half the debts in town, and everyone important who enjoyed free whiskey. Caleb's mouth became a thin line. “Nobody owns everybody,” he said. “Mr. Vane thinks he does.” “Then Mr. Vane has never met enough stubborn people.”
That afternoon, Caleb entered the Lucky Star while June and I watched through a cracked kitchen window. Silas Vane stood behind the bar in a cream vest, a gold chain across his stomach, his hair neat enough to belong in a city photograph. He was handsome the way a rattlesnake was beautiful from a distance. “Rourke,” he said. “Heard you've taken an interest in Bell's little strays.” Caleb's hand stopped beside his glass. “They've got names.” Vane smiled. “So do dogs.” The room shifted. Men stopped talking. Caleb did not raise his voice. “Say that again.” Sheriff Holt, seated at a card table, stood and let his hand drift toward his pistol. Vane changed subjects, but the smile never left his face. Caleb asked where Clara Bell had gone, on what wagon, by which road, to what address in Cheyenne. Neither Vane nor Holt could answer one question without anger.
When Caleb walked out, June and I scrambled away from the window but not fast enough. He caught us behind a rain barrel. “How much did you hear?” he asked. June folded her arms. “Dogs have names.” “Please don't bite Mr. Vane.” “Why?” “I suspect he tastes terrible.” I laughed before I could stop myself. The sound frightened me. It belonged to the girl I had been when Papa chased June around the porch and Mama sang while kneading bread. Caleb noticed my fear more than my laughter. He did not comment. That night he slept on our porch with his hat over his face and a revolver under one hand. I told him there were mosquitoes. “They like me,” he said. “You're strange.” “Been told.”
May you like
Near midnight, June opened the door a crack and asked if he had ever been married. Caleb went still. “Yes.” “Where is she?” “Gone.” “Cheyenne?” Pain crossed his face. “No, sweetheart. Her name was Eliza Grace. Fever took her five winters ago.” June sat on the threshold. “Did you cry?” I whispered her name in horror, but Caleb did not seem offended. “No,” he said after a long silence. “Couldn't.” “Why?” “Didn't know how, I suppose.” June considered that. “Mama says crying is water coming out when hurt gets too big.” Caleb looked toward the stars, swallowing hard. I asked whether bad men had taken his wife. “No. Just life.” Then he looked at me. “You think your mother is alive?” “I know she is.” He nodded. “Then we act like she's alive until somebody proves otherwise.”
It was the first promise from an adult that I believed. Perhaps that was why the hoofbeats climbing the hill an hour later terrified me more than anything before them. Caleb was on his feet before I reached the window. Three riders approached without lanterns. Moonlight flashed on Boone Clegg's silver tooth. Caleb stepped into the doorway. “Girls, under the bed.” My blood turned cold. “No.” “Lily.” “That's what Mama said.” His expression softened. “Then do what she taught you. I'll be right here when you come out.” June whispered, “Promise?” Caleb looked down at her. “On Eliza Grace's name.” I did not yet understand how sacred those words were to him. I only knew he said his dead wife's name like it was something he still carried warm in his hands.
